


Lazy British Summer

by JenNova



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenNova/pseuds/JenNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is, well. Exactly. Part ode to the fading British summer, part me wanting to have Eames love my favourite sport, part *hand-waves*, all rather fluffy. I'm moving on the weekend so I'm not going to be properly online for at least ten days - so consider this my gift to Inception fandom as it currently stands. I'm certain that it'll have changed <i>dramatically</i> by the time I'm back online again. I ♥s this fandom, I truly do.</p><p>(Also: finally! Eames PoV, I can has it. Though, well, to be honest - I have three other pieces on various stages of work and all have Eames PoV and all are slightly different. Call this one facet, then.)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lazy British Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This is, well. Exactly. Part ode to the fading British summer, part me wanting to have Eames love my favourite sport, part *hand-waves*, all rather fluffy. I'm moving on the weekend so I'm not going to be properly online for at least ten days - so consider this my gift to Inception fandom as it currently stands. I'm certain that it'll have changed _dramatically_ by the time I'm back online again. I ♥s this fandom, I truly do.
> 
> (Also: finally! Eames PoV, I can has it. Though, well, to be honest - I have three other pieces on various stages of work and all have Eames PoV and all are slightly different. Call this one facet, then.)

Eames falls in love with Arthur's bare feet. Not in a fetish sort of way, each to their own and all that but that isn't really Eames' thing. Eames falls in love with Arthur _because_ of his bare feet.

The sky is blue, a rare enough occurrence to make note of it, and stretches away to the horizon where it meets with an ocean made dark blue in reflection. Eames settles himself, cross-legged, on the sand, wriggling until he feels comfortable. He tugs his hat down, shading his eyes, and wishes that he'd remembered sunglasses instead. He's always a little worried that hats don't suit him.

Closer to the water Cobb chases little James, his laughter belying the intent way he watches the waves rolling in, always cautious. Mal sits with her legs akimbo, an unconscious sprawl that is breathtakingly beautiful, and builds sandcastles with Phillipa.

Eames feels slightly like an impostor, even though it was he that suggested the Cobb's take a holiday in his neck of the woods, unable to see where he fits into this picture of domestic bliss. It doesn't help that Mal's smiles are knowing every time she meets his eyes, lips curving in a wholly distracting way.

"Shouldn't you be sitting on a towel?" Arthur asks, approaching from the side, and Eames looks up at him with a grin.

"Are you worried I might get sand in a place you aren't expecting?" Eames asks, trailing his eyes from Arthur's head to his feet. His _bare feet_.

Arthur's way of consenting to the English sun has been to leave his suit jacket in the car and remove his tie, letting his collar fall open. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing the fine forearms that Eames has spent many a sunny afternoon daydreaming about. He's still wearing his waistcoat which, though incongruous, is so completely Arthur that it makes Eames' heart skip a beat.

And then there's his feet.

"You're not wearing any shoes," Eames points out, unable to reason this little fact away. Arthur's feet flex in the sand, toes digging in, before he drops gracefully down beside Eames.

"Thank you for stating the obvious, Mr Eames," Arthur says, one side of his mouth twitching into a brief smile. "My shoes aren't particularly suited to the beach, you might have noticed."

"Well, of course," Eames says, trying to recover himself. It's hard though, with one strand of Arthur's hair slipping out from behind his ear and the bare feet and the open collar.

It's takes Eames maybe five seconds to identify the emotion pounding in his chest and it worries him for maybe ten seconds more. But he's always found it easy to love, in all the ways a person is capable of loving, and on further thought he's surprised that it's taken him this long to fall in love with Arthur.

Unable to resist he reaches out and tucks the loose strand of hair behind Arthur's ear, fingers curling slightly as he traces the shell of said ear, and he doesn't miss the way Arthur leans into his touch briefly.

Arthur turns to him, the soft smile on his lips graduating to his eyes, and Eames opens his mouth to tell Arthur what he's just discovered.

"You wanted this?" Arthur says before Eames can spill his newest secret. Arthur pulls back from his touch and offers Eames the small radio he'd left in the car, that Arthur had offered to retrieve in an uncharacteristic moment of helpfulness.

(Arthur is always helpful to other people, of course, but Eames is normally left to fend for himself. Eames suspects it's a test, but he's damned if he knows what for.)

"Yes," Eames says, stowing away his secret for a moment. "Thank you, dear Arthur."

Eames flicks the radio on and raises the volume enough to hear Henry Blofeld taking a moment to describe the colour of the bus driving past the Oval. Something like a sigh passes from Eames' mouth, involuntary, as the sounds of youthful seaside visits come back to him.

"I really have no idea what you get out of that sport," Arthur says, watching as Mal helps Phillipa build her castles higher.

"I thought you'd be all for it," Eames says, cocking a grin at him. "There's so much to know – and you are so very fond of knowing things."

"It doesn't make sense," Arthur says, quietly and Eames resists the urge to grin wider.

"You know I'm always happy to provide you the benefit of my knowledge," Eames says, leaning closer to Arthur, knowing that his breath will caress the skin of Arthur's neck.

"Oh, really," Arthur says, turning his head to meet Eames' eyes. "Enlighten me, then."

Eames is a little surprised – it's rare that he meets an American that's actually interested in learning about cricket (and the ones that do so often spend so large an amount of time trying to relate it to baseball that they end more confused that when they started) – and doesn't really know where to begin. This is always so much easier with a piece of paper and a pen.

He thinks of asking Arthur for a lend of his notebook, having noticed the familiar bulge of it in his pocket before he sat down. He never gets the chance, though, for in that moment James flies into him, knocking him back onto the sand.

"Oof," Eames manages, registering Arthur's carefree laughter as James shifts until he's sitting on Eames' chest, staring down at him.

"Unc' Eames," James says, eyes serious. "Play soccer w'me?"

Eames frowns and puts his hands under James' arms, lifting him so that he can sit up.

"Football, little man," Eames corrects, rolling his shoulders. "When in England you will use the right word."

James rolls his eyes and Eames stifles a laugh, it's something he's seen Mal do so many times before.

"Football," James says, the _'are you happy now'_ left to speak for itself. Eames ruffles James' hair and grins.

"Better," he says and then: "I will indulge you in a kickabout, _if_ you can convince your Uncle Arthur to play too."

Arthur shoots him an amused look over James' head as the boy wheels on him and Eames doesn't bother to hide his laugh this time. Eames knows there's no way Arthur will refuse James and within minutes they are kicking the football about, Arthur and James against Eames and Cobb, and if Eames was thinking he'd probably register how like home this moment feels.

Eames isn't used to feeling at home with other people.

\--

Supper is fish and chips, because it's been too long since Eames has had them and he enjoys the look on Arthur's face when he's handed the sturdy cardboard box. Mal and Dom have lured the children back to their B&amp;B, the whole family sleepy from a day of sea air (and Eames was fairly certain that he'd seen the telltale pinkness of sunburn on Cobb's neck).

It's just Arthur and Eames, then, walking along the promenade until they find a suitable bench. They settle easily beside each other, Arthur not shifting away when his leg falls against Eames', and Eames is certain that he's not felt so peaceful in years. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the rich salt and vinegar scent emanating from his own box, and slumps back against the beach.

"This was a good idea," Arthur says after a moment, bumping his shoulder against Eames'.

"Of course it was," Eames says with a shrug. "It was one of mine."

Normally a boast like that would draw a sarcastic comment from Arthur but this time Arthur just laughs, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and spreading it across his lap. Eames wants to laugh at that, such a ridiculous gesture, but finds he doesn't have it in him. It's so _Arthur_.

"Cobb's been tense since the Beirut job," Arthur says, picking carefully at his chips. "He needed to relax."

"I have to admit that I was a little surprised he agreed," Eames says around a mouthful of fish. God he's missed this taste, nowhere else on the planet seems to get it just right. "The south of France is much lovelier at this time of year."

"I may have convinced him," Arthur admits, surprise gracing his face as he chews on his own bite of fish. "This is surprisingly good."

"As always, Arthur, my country is pleased to have your approval," Eames says, rolling his eyes. He stretches his free arm across the back of the bench, behind but not touching Arthur's shoulders. "And what do you mean 'convinced him'?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," Arthur says, leaning just slightly into Eames' arm. "But I was curious. I wondered how you vacation."

"I don't holiday like this very often," Eames says, smiling ruefully. "I'm just as likely to be found in Monte Carlo or Vegas."

"I know," Arthur flashes a grin that Eames' immediately wants to see more of. "I've found you there more than once. This seemed more – personal."

Arthur waves a hand through the air before he says personal, as if searching for the word, and Eames is distracted by the bits of batter stuck to his fingers, the grease from the chips. It seems so imperfect on perfect Arthur.

"It is, I suppose," Eames admits, looking back out at the sea again. It's barely seven o'clock and sun is still not close to setting. He misses the long summer nights when he's not here.

He's surprised to realise that.

"My family weren't exactly," Eames searches for his own word. "Solvent, shall we say, and holidays were what we made of them. We didn't come here, exactly, but went to other places. Blackpool, sometimes, Whitley Bay. Even Brighton, on occasion, though you could hardly call that a beach."

Eames stops for a moment, tasting old memories on his tongue, sights and sounds returning to him after years of forgetting them.

"Stayed in caravans, mostly," he adds, stealing one of Arthur's chips for the sake of the stealing. "Never anywhere as nice as that B&amp;B. But it didn't matter, of course, because that's not what it was about."

"Do you miss them?" Arthur asks quietly, stealing one of Eames' chips in return. Arthur didn't take salt and vinegar on his. "Your family I mean?"

"I –" Eames stops for a moment and thinks of the two worn gravestones he doesn't visit often enough, of a terraced house in Cardiff he's only been inside twice. "I do. Of course I do. But most days I don't think about it."

One of Arthur's hands finds Eames' knee, squeezing slightly. Eames might not be as proud of his clothes as Arthur is but even he would normally complain about someone getting batter all over his trousers. He finds he doesn't mind, though.

Especially when Arthur's hand remains.

\--

The pub is comfortable, enough of a mix of holiday makers and locals to not make things awkward, and Eames tucks himself and Arthur into a corner, lager for him and scotch for Arthur. He doesn't really feel like drinking, he realises, but he's missed the comforting shape of a pint glass in his hand. It feels right.

Eames is still stuck on the memory of Arthur's bare feet as Arthur tells stories – about how he met Cobb (Eames has heard it before, from Cobb, but Arthur tells it differently), about how he fell a little bit in love with Mal (who didn't?), about being at James' birth because Cobb was stuck elsewhere, about the first job that ever went wrong for them. He doesn't speak about his life before Cobb stole him away from the FBI, but Eames doesn't mind so much.

He learns a lot more about Arthur from the way he talks about Cobb and Mal than he would if he just asked.

Arthur is still without suit jacket but did put his shoes back on before they went in search of alcohol. Eames thinks he's never seen Arthur look so relaxed, and that it looks well on him. Not that there's really anything that doesn't look well on Arthur (though Eames still clenches his fist when he remembers the pain flashing through Arthur's eyes the last time something went wrong) but this seems more so than usual.

He thinks that, maybe, here and now, he's seeing something of who Arthur was before he became the World's Greatest Point Man. Eames knows Arthur well enough by now to know that there's much more to him than well-fitting suits and research – but it's nice to have such an obvious example of the fact.

People who don't know Arthur tend to miss his half-smiles and clever turns of phrase – mistaking them for solemnity and rigid formality. Arthur is dry and never backs down from the banter that Eames can't help peppering their working relationship with. Eames teases, of course, about Arthur having a lack of imagination, and other things – but there's rarely truth in it.

Arthur surprises him, when the lights go low and the music goes up, by dragging Eames to tiny dance floor and failing to impress him with his dance moves. Eames laughs and pulls Arthur in close, guiding him into something more formal that doesn't fit the music at all, and Arthur lets him. Eames wonders briefly if people are staring but decides he doesn't care – he's sure they make a handsome picture.

Arthur surprises him once again, when they tumble into the street, laughing, arms still slung about each other.

"Show me how nice your B&amp;B is?" Arthur suggests, leaning into Eames and placing the words gently in his ear.

Arthur is warm against his side and his eyes are bright and Eames can't help the smile that tugs against his lips, knowing that it's disgustingly soppy.

"Why not?" Eames leads the way, slipping his hand down to take one of Arthur's.

He's pleased, not surprised, when Arthur twists their fingers together and doesn't let go.

\--

Eames kisses Arthur for the first time against the door of his room in the B&amp;B. It's not fireworks and high drama – but it is warm, light and a little too wet but entirely perfect in its imperfection. Arthur laughs into his mouth and fists a hand in his hair.

"Hesitant, Mr Eames?" Arthur asks, lips barely a breath away from Eames'. "Isn't this what you want?"

"Is it what you want?" Eames asks, ghosting his mouth along Arthur's jaw, finding the soft spot under his ear and pressing a kiss there.

"Why do you think I'm really here?" Arthur asks, sliding a hand down to grip Eames' hip and pull him close.

"The world is full of surprises today," Eames whispers against Arthur's neck before lifting his head to kiss him again.

Arthur guides them to the bed, backwards, and they tumble down onto it, entangled and connected. Eames hovers for a moment, tucking a rumpled strand of hair behind Arthur's ear, and feels his heart ease in his chest when Arthur's leans into the touch before turning his head and pressing a kiss to Eames' hand.

Eames falls.

\--

"Do you still dream?" Arthur asks as Eames stands by the window, watching the summer moon drift through the sky.

"Now and then," Eames offers half a shrug. "They make even less sense than they did before I started dreamsharing."

"I stopped dreaming quickly," Arthur says. There's a clatter of something on the bedside table and Eames doesn't bother turning to look to know what it is.

"And yet you find yourself unable to stop yourself from checking," Eames says. He knows it's true because the first thing he did when slid out of the bed was check the pocket watch in his trouser pocket.

The hands were broken. As they should be.

"Are you insulted?" Arthur asks. His voice is closer now and Eames can feel him approaching, the warmth of his body shifting around the room.

"On the contrary, darling," Eames says, the endearment slipping out easily. "I'm flattered."

"You're incorrigible," Arthur's arms come about Eames' waist and his lips press against Eames' shoulder.

"My, how British you sound when you say that," Eames says, smiling.

"Maybe you're rubbing off on me," Arthur says, lips moving against Eames' skin. Eames shivers.

There's such an obvious joke to be made and Eames surprises himself by not making it. Not wanting to ruin the moment, he thinks.

"You should know I love you," Arthur says, so softly that for a moment Eames thinks he's misheard.

"That's –" Eames stops, turns in Arthur's arms and meets his eyes. There's a hint of nerves in Arthur's eyes, something Eames doesn't recall seeing before. "Believe me, dearest Arthur, the feeling is mutual."

"Good," Arthur nods, leaning forwards to press his forehead against Eames' shoulder. "You should also know that I don't like cheaters."

Eames' breath stills in his throat before he huffs out a laugh.

"I only ever cheat at cards," Eames says, tugging Arthur's head up. "You have my word on that."

Arthur stares at him for a long moment, until Eames begins to believe he can see himself reflected in Arthur's eyes.

"Come back to bed?" Arthur asks, tugging on his waist. Eames nods.

"For you? Always," Eames lets himself be pulled down, again.

He falls asleep with his eyes on Arthur's head, resting on his chest and rising and falling with his breathing.

\--

Eames has the radio on when Arthur emerges from the shower, just in time for the start of play. Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"I never did get to give you my explanation," Eames says, gesturing at the piece of B&amp;B stationery he's extracted from the folder on the dresser.

"Did you ever think that I just asked because I wanted to 'get into your pants'?" Arthur asks, rubbing a towel over his head. Eames blinks.

"If you did then you're even more devilishly cunning than I thought," Eames says with an easy grin. He gestures to the chair opposite him.

Arthur sighs.

"I've got no choice in this," he states and Eames just grins wider. "Come on then. Enlighten me."

Eames starts by drawing an oval on the paper.

"This, dear Arthur, is a cricket ground –" he begins, sketching in the pitch and the wicket.

Arthur declares at one point that he needs coffee if he's going to understand this and goes out to find somewhere that sells 'real coffee'. Eames trusts that Arthur will come back and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and listening to wickets fall at the Oval.

It feels like home.

**Author's Note:**

> [Henry Blofeld](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Blofeld) is a long venerated English cricket commentator. He commentates for BBC radio's Test Match Special and is well known for telling folk all about things going on around the ground (and the location of any pigeons) in between balls.
> 
> He is the archetypical English gent. We love him for it. (And, for fun, [here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znmjnEMqHeg) Fry &amp; Laurie having fun with commentary in a light-hearted dig at Messr. Blofeld.)


End file.
